007: Quantum of Solace (2008) ON HIATUS
by DrStrangelovPHD
Summary: A novelization of the 22nd Bond film, Quantum of Solace. So far, the longest fan-fic I've ever done, almost a year in the works. Uploading it bit-by-bit, so bear with me. *On Hiatus*
1. Snatch and Grab

**1 Snatch and Grab**

The small schooner bobbed up and down in the Venice canals like a top. The small boat's sails were pulled in, letting the wind play with it—in which direction it would go. A blonde man in a striped polo shirt with khaki jeans was the only passenger, he was talking on a Smartphone, and he wasn't having a pleasant conversation. He wiped away the salty tears from his eyes as he spoke.

"If I knew that she was going to betray me, then why did you send her?" he tried not to yell into the phone.  
_"Bond, did you ask yourself why you weren't killed on that barge."_ The other end said in a rather matter-of-fact voice.

James Bond, the man on the boat, contemplated that for a while. There was a pause, and then the other voice began to speak. _"She made a deal—to spare your life in exchange for the money. I'm sure that they would've let her live. But she must've known that she was going to her death."  
_  
"Why did she betray me?" Bond was playing with the contents in Vesper's purse: her perfume, keys, her driver's license, and some shells she had picked on the beach. All of them were memories—precious in their own way.

_"She had a boyfriend—a French-Algerian—they were very much in love."_ Bond's boss, M explained. _"She was kidnapped by the organization behind Le Chieffe_,_ and they blackmailed her, threatened to kill her unless she cooperated. Thanks to you, we've no idea about who is behind this. The trail's gone cold. I want you on the first flight to London for a debrief."_

"Will do." Bond turned off the secure link for MI6. He went back to the purse. Her Apple Smartphone was underneath the collection of shells, turned on, and it had a box covering the screen that read "MESSAGE (1)".  
Curious, Bond unlocked the phone and hit the "View" button.

FOR JAMES,

MR. WHITE # 18033498542

XO, V.

Bond put down the phone. He looked at the message and then up into the crystal-clear Venetian sky. Why would she leave her phone here? She must've known I'd check it. She lead me to the meeting with Gettler. Now she's leading me to Mr. White.

Bond then went back to the MI6-encrypted phone, wanting to tell the information to M. But he didn't. He picked it up, and, with the flick of a wrist, tossed it into the aqua-blue canal. He watched the phone sink to the bottom. Bond then looked up at the sky. For once in his three-week career of serving Her Majesty, Bond, James James Bond, Agent Double-O Seven, wasn't an agent anymore.

His next mission would be a personal one.

The tuxedo-black Bentley came to a crunching halt in front of the mansion overlooking Lake Como. It was a beautiful lakeside mansion, built in the 1600s and refurbished more than 400 years later. It was Lorenzo de Medici's summer home, it now had a new owner—Mr. White.

Mr. White, dressed in a sharp, grey Armani suit, got out of the car and tipped the driver, who then did a U-turn and peeled away. His hands went into his pockets, searching for his house keys. Instead, he found his phone, which was vibrating and ringing at the same time.

He answered it. Before he got a chance to speak, a British voice on the other end said, "Mr. White?"  
"Yes," Mr. White said, a bit uneasy, "Who's this?"

A _fwip_ was heard and Mr. White's right knee felt sharp pain. It was like someone had held a knife to his knee and had driven it into place with a sledge hammer. Mr. White buckled and collapsed into the gravel driveway in sections, like an aluminum folding chair. Squealing in pain, he inched himself up towards the stairs, his other hand going into the breast pocket of his jacket for the 9mm automatic he wore below his left armpit. He dug it out, then began his slow trek up the stairs. He heard someone calmly walking beside him, and as Mr. White turned, the 9mm aimed into the air, he saw his assailant, a blonde man in a black Armani suit, holding a UMP-9 sub-machine gun capped by a silencer.

The blonde man kicked the gun out of Mr. White's hand and took two steps up, so that he was looking down into the face of his victim. Mr. White's face was twisted and open with a mix of horror and disbelief.

"The name's Bond." The blonde man greeted. "James Bond."

The Bentley came circling back down the driveway. As it came to a stop in front of the two men, the engine quickly shut off. Looking from outside, Bond could see the driver talking into a radio, his lips moving a mile-a-minute. Suddenly the sound of a silenced rifle pierced the air with a _fwip_, and Bond went into a protective crouch, aiming the UMP against his shoulder, seeing a sniper on the roof, and gunning him down. The man fell spread-eagled onto the hood of the luxury car. The Bentley reversed, and then stopped. The driver got out, a man in his early-twenties, wearing the stereotypical chauffeur uniform. His mouth was open in horror, and then he spun around and took off running, all the time praying in Italian.

"Care to reconsider, Mr. Bond?" Mr. White asked smartly.

More voices, some in Italian, shouting ones, then footsteps crunching on the gravel. Bond turned to see two men in suits running towards him. One of them turned to stop and opened fire on Bond with a small-caliber machine gun. Bond slid behind the marble stone railings and drew his Walther as the tat-tat-tat of machine gun fire chipped off pieces of the stone cover. Bond turned around, shooting the guard in the groin. Dropping his gun, the guard's hands went towards his shattered testicles, his head bent down towards the ground. Bond then, without aiming, shot the wounded man through the top of his head. The dead guard then face-planted into the gravel driveway.

The second guard, drawing a gun from his coat, was also getting ready to fire. Bond saw him too, and dispatched him with the business end of the Walther P99. Bond turned towards his hostage, who was still withering on the ground in pain, blood spurting from his kneecap, dripping down his pant leg.  
"You think you can get out of here alive, Mr. Bond?" Mr. White laughed.

Bond picked holstered the Walther and stood up, turning towards Mr. White. He bent over to pick up the gun on the ground, and then Bond took the UMP-9 and slung it over his shoulder. And then he took a few steps back, leaving his hostage behind. Bond walked away from Mr. White, as if leaving him for dead. Bond then returned a minute later in an Aston Martin DBS, the same car he had wrecked in Montenegro. Bond had picked up a new, clean version of the car from a local agent in Venice. Bond then drove to the lakeside highway and used a sniper rifle to shoot Mr. White in the leg, and then Bond jumped into the Aston Martin and drove down to Mr. White's estate.

Bond got out of the car, walking like he had done after Mr. White had been shot. "Get up, we're going for a little ride." Bond said, grabbing Mr. White by his shattered leg and dragging him over to the Aston Martin. He then threw his victim into the trunk and opened the driver's-side door, sliding into the seat behind the wheel. He did a U-turn and drove away, not before seeing two black cars accelerating like rockets towards him.  
This wasn't going to be an easy snatch-and-grab.

* * *

Bond headed for the tunnel, and as he entered it and coasted behind traffic, he heard the rapping of automatic machine gun fire against his vehicle. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw two Alfa Romero sedans with V6 engines roaring up behind him. The passenger had leaned out of the window and fired on Bond with an H&K machine pistol. The bullets continued to hammer into the bodywork and crease the glass windows of the DBS until the car swerved into a water truck. Bond corrected, trying to drive away from the truck, but the semi traded paint again with the British sports car, this time the front bumper of the truck was stuck inside the Aston Martin's door. Bond couldn't move. The only thing he could do was ballsy, but he gave it a try. He turned the wheel sharply in the same direction as the truck, the DBS span around 360-degrees and the door ripped off, almost taking Bond with it. Bond then dove around the truck as traffic in the opposite lane screeched towards him, horns blaring.

"Hang on, Mr. White!" Bond yelled over the traffic as he pushed the DBS's accelerator pedal to the floor, the speedometer climbed to 60. But the Alfa Romeros weren't giving up. They swerved around the truck and were continuing to pepper the Englishman's getaway car with gunfire. Two minutes later, Bond's car rocketed out of the tunnel and into an unfortunate traffic jam. Bond saw an opening from behind a fruit truck, and the Aston Martin juped into the other lane, then back into the left as another truck came roaring up towards him. An Alfa Romero tried to copy Bond's maneuvers, but the truck slammed into the Italian sedan, presumably killing the occupants on impact.

Bond smirked and saw two Italian Carabineri officers, the Italian police, advancing towards his car. Bond whipped the Aston Martin into a left turn and went down another mountainside tunnel. The remaining Alfa Romero did the same, the passenger firing a M240-B light machine gun into the back window of Bond's car. The window shattered after several punishing volleys.

Bond cursed and put the pedal to the metal. He came up on a sloping street, then the cutoff to a quarry entrance. A Carabineri SUV had cut them off, and Bond had no choice but to veer left into the quarry. A second vehicle had joined the chase. As Bond continued to drive down the white-stoned mountain roads, the Alfa Romero shifted its fire to the rear. The police SUV began to shudder and swerve until it eventually fell off the mountain. Bond whipped the Aston Martin into a hairpin turn and saw the SUV tumbling down the mountain. Bond missed it by a fraction of an inch.

The Alfa Romero gained speed and rammed Bond from behind. As both vehicles fought each other for control, Bond was reaching over the passenger seat, trying to grab the UMP submachine gun on the floor. Both cars juped left and right to avoid a bulldozer, and as both vehicles regrouped, Bond could see the passenger's face break into a wide smile as his machine gun came up, ready to pulverize the British agent.

But Bond was quick on the draw, and fired the UMP into the Alfa Romero's driver. The vehicle slammed into the Aston Martin and then broke off to crash into another bulldozer, the Italian vehicle exploded and combusted as Bond continued to drive.

"How are you doing back there, Mr. White?" Bond joked.  
From inside the trunk, Bond could hear Mr. White say a four-letter expletive followed by "you".  
Bond kept himself composed and kept driving.


	2. We Have People Everywhere

**2. "We have people everywhere"**

The British agent and his captive arrived in Siena at around a quarter-to-three in the afternoon. The town was ready for the annual Palio horse race, sort of like the Kentucky derbies in the United States. It was a town tradition that stretched back more than 200 years. Flags were draped over balconies and joyful crowds were mingling about in the streets on the way to the horse track, and Bond had to honk the horn to shoo them from the car. Siena, Bond thought, retained enough Renaissance essence than any other city in Italy. As he turned the vehicle away from the crowd, Bond entered a passageway and stopped the car about hallway through. He got out of the car, went around to the back, and unlocked the trunk.

Mr. White was a mess, his face was bruised and cut from bouncing around in the car. The trunk also smelled of vomit, piss, and fecal matter. He looked up at Bond with relief, that the hellish ride was finally over.  
"Time to get out." Bond told him.

Two MI6 suits came out from the passageway and helped Bond haul a dazed Mr. White from the vehicle and carry him into the Siena safe house. M was already waiting for him. Alongside her was her bodyguard, a ten-year man named Mitchell, who remained stoic and calm like the guards outside Buckingham Palace.  
Bond entered the antechamber where M was. "Mitchell." Bond greeted.

"Bond."  
Bond then turned to M. "Afternoon, ma'am."  
"What happened in Venice, Bond? Why did you have to go out of your way to maliciously wound a man, cause a traffic stir with two police being killed, allow that to be collateral damage, and have myself being whisked off from London on a last-minute flight to Italy without even being given a clear explanation? Can you sum that up for me, Bond?"

Bond was surprised. He was in hot water with M at the beginning of the Montenegro assignment, and he was certainly in hot water now, given the circumstances that M pointed out.

"I just found your man. The man in the organization that was pulling Le Chieffe's strings. The trail's just got warmer."  
"That doesn't explain why I'm here?"  
"What do you have on Vesper? What about her lover?" He held up the Algerian love knot to send his point across. M got a folder from the table and passed it to Bond. "Vesper's boyfriend: Yusuf Karbira. Abducted in Morocco June 2006 and was found on a beach in Ibiza two weeks later." A photograph of a dead Yusuf with his face badly chewed up, his lips hanging by strings of skin, his eyeballs gone. "We believe the fish did that to his face. His wallet and his ID were in his pocket."

Bond wasn't satisfied, even with this information given to him. "Who abducted him?"  
M pointed to the one-way window where Mr. White was sitting in a chair, his bloody leg being attended to by the two MI6 suits. "Ask him."

* * *

Bond pulled up a chair as M and Mitchell came up behind him. Bond turned on a bright desk lamp and tilted it so that the light shown in Mr. White's face. He squinted and groaned as the two MI6 suits backed away from him, after bandaging his leg and fixing an IV drip to the wound.

"You're going to tell us who you work for."  
Mr. White seemed calm and collected, not worrying about his bad leg. He talked with Bond as if he was an old friend. "I'm very interested to meet you, Mr. Bond." Mr. White said coolly. "I've heard so much about you from Vesper." Then Mr. White looked down at the stone floor, then up at M. "Of course, if she hadn't killed herself, we would've had you too. I think you would've done anything for her."

The images of Vesper succumbing to her horrible drowning death in the elevator of the sinking house flashed before Bond's eyes. He tried not to cry, trying not to show Mr. White that agent Double-O Seven was emotionally traumatized.

M spoke now. "Mr. White, you're not in Britain and God knows where you'll be tomorrow. Eventually you will tell us about the people you work with. If you make it difficult, we'll resort to unconventional solutions to obtaining the answer."

Mr. White laughed. In between giggles he said, "You really don't know anything about us? You're on the other side, thinking: 'The MI6, the CIA, they're always looking over their shoulders, feeling safe knowing that they can trust their own people'-and the fact is—they don't really know that we exist?"

"We know now, Mr. White." M replied smugly. "We're quick learners."  
"Then," Mr. White composed himself, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Perhaps you should know this, that we have people everywhere." He then looked towards Mitchell, the stoic, nonchalant agent next to M. "Am I right?"

Bond never expected it. Mitchell became alive as if he was suddenly woken up. He drew his service weapon, a .357 SIG-Sauer and fired three rounds into one of the MI6 suits. He then put two more rounds into the other's face.  
Bond tried to grab Mitchell, but he kicked him aside, turned around, and shot M in the chest. As she turned around, she was shot again in the back. She collapsed to the floor.

Bond jumped on Mitchell, grabbing his gun hand and wrestling for control of the SIG. Mitchell kneed Bond in the stomach and pistol-whipped him. As Bond fell to the floor, Mitchell aimed the SIG at Bond's head. Bond kicked Mitchell, causing him to fall backwards, as well as dropping his gun. Mitchell then righted himself and took off down the passageway to the old Roman-era cistern.

M was withering in pain and Bond went to her. "Are you alright, ma'am?"  
M pulled away her blouse, revealing a bulletproof vest. The .357 FMJ round was embedded in the fabric. She plucked the bullet out and threw it across the room. "I'm fine, Bond. Get him!"

Bond drew his P99 and took off after him.

* * *

Mitchell ran down the watery steps with Bond hot on his heels. He tried to grab his other weapon hidden on the small of his back, but he kept running, hoping that every step would take him farther away from Bond. Mitchell grabbed hold of a ladder that led up to the street and climbed it as fast as he could. "You're a dead man, Bond!" he called out.

Bond grabbed the ladder and started to climb. Mitchell made it out and vanished. Bond reached the top of the ladder, grabbed the outer ring of the manhole, and pulled himself up. Two men in ties and sports coats were at ease, reading the newspapers in a street side café. When Mitchell ran past them, the men stood up and pulled out guns. One of them had an H&K machine pistol set on full-automatic. He smiled and lifted his gun.

But that didn't slow Bond down. Grabbing the P99 with his other hand, he whipped it out and shot the man in the head. The other man's pistol spat twice, but Bond dove behind a car, got his pistol over the hood, aimed, and fired. The other man fell back onto the small café table.

Bond then saw Mitchell scaling a fence, and took off after him. It became clear where he was headed—the old Casa de Siena Luna dome. There was probably a car waiting and who knows how many bad guys. Bond climbed over the obstacles in his way, darting left and right to avoid stray dogs and people who were tardy to the Palio.

Bond ran up a flight of steps, jumped onto a drainpipe, climbed it, and reached the roof. He saw Mitchell running towards the dome. Bond tried to chase after him, but the tiles slipped out from under his feat, causing him to falter. He climbed up the roof, jumped onto a balcony and climbed down onto a stalled bus. He ran across the bus's roof and jumped onto another balcony. Bond's heart was pounding and sweat broke out on his face, getting into his eyes and blurring his vision.

But this mangy bastard had tried to kill M. And anyone who tries to shoot the head of MI6 would shoot at anybody, even James Bond. He hoped to catch up to Mitchell, who was the latest clue in unlocking the mystery of Vesper's past.

The dome was under construction, and the workmen were watching the Palio from the street. That made Bond's job easier, as people were away from the roofs and where Mitchell was headed. As Bond leapt across another rooftop, he heard Mitchell taunting him as he climbed up a flight of steps to the dome. "You are a skilled agent, Mr. Bond. But you're no match for me and Quantum!"

Bond remembered the word "Quantum"—another clue. This was starting to come together quickly. Bond was trying to keep his cool and his emotions in check as he climbed the steps after Mitchell.

As he got to the top, he looked around. Bond saw nothing but heard the cheers of the crowd below.  
_Where did that bastard go?_  
A gun was pressed against Bond's head. He turned around to see Mitchell holding his backup piece: a SIG Sauer P232 pistol.

"Mr. Bond, your time is up."

"What's Quantum?" Bond asked, as if he didn't notice the gun.

"Maybe you'll ask that when I'm done with you."

"Drop the gun, Mitchell. It's over."

"And what, go to the Old Bailey for shooting an old woman? Chill out, James."

"No, I'll put in a good word for you at Scotland Yard."

"Greene wouldn't like that."

"Who?"

"Gree—"

Bond grabbed Mitchell's arm and the gun went off. Bond chopped at the man's wrist and the gun dropped to the floor. Bond then used the man's weight to throw him onto the ground.  
Bond had put a hand over Mitchell's neck and squeezed hard, asking, "Who's Quantum? Greene?"

But the turncoat had thwarted Bond by wriggling out from under him. He tried to go for the SIG, but Bond kicked it away from him, down into the construction site. Mitchell took a running start to try to charge Bond, but 007 had butted the man off the ledge, crashing through the glass atrium. Mitchell landed on a wooden catwalk, Bond's foot was caught in a rope and he dangled upside down. As Bond tried to free himself, Mitchell was going for his gun.

Bond got his foot free and crashed onto the ground, diving away as Mitchell fired at him. Bond then reached for the backup Walther PPK/S he kept strapped to his ankle. Wrenching it loose, he saw Mitchell climb down the catwalk and onto a scaffold in an attempt to get a better firing position. As Mitchell landed on the scaffold, just twenty yards from Bond, his face broke into an evil grin as he raised the SIG. Bond fired twice, both rounds slamming into Mitchell's chest. The traitor cried out and toppled over the scaffold onto the ground, dead.

* * *

As Bond surveyed the crime scene, he felt no remorse. He didn't need to bring Mitchell in for questioning. He just gave him two new pieces to the puzzle. "Quantum" and "Greene".

The return to the safe house was a somber and lukewarm walk. Bond's sense of smell whiffed perfume of a lovely woman drinking coffee in a café across the street. Chanteuse—the same kind of perfume Vesper used to wear. He was blinded by memories of them together at the beach, the touch and sounds of their orgasms while making love. He was so blinded, that he didn't notice where he was walking, right into another woman, this one with back hair.  
"Watch yourself, _du bastardo!_" The woman cursed.  
Black hair—Vesper.

Bond cleared his thoughts as he entered the safe house's secret entrance. M was escorted to a medical unit, hurt from the bullet's impact from where the vest had saved her life. MI6 and Italian police were scouring the room for clues. Bond noticed that Mr. White wasn't in the room. He approached one of the MI6 agents. "Where's Mr. White?"

The agent simply shook his head in disbelief. "We found the agent by the exit murdered, two bullets in his skull. The car in which M arrived in was gone. Mitchell probably had done it. Speaking of which, where is he?"  
"Murdered." Bond replied. "He died a traitor's death."  
"The two men who were in the café are being taken to the morgue." The agent explained. "We'll have their names and photographs from the Italian police by tomorrow."  
"Tell M about 'Quantum', and 'Greene'." Bond told him. "Can you do that for me?"  
The agent nodded.  
"M wants you in London for a full debrief once she's cleared by medical. She means it this time."  
Bond nodded and walked away. _I could use a martini right_ _now._


	3. Piecing the Puzzle

**3. Piecing the Puzzle**

Once Bond was cleared by customs, he was whisked off to MI6 headquarters in London by a private car from the airport. He arrived on time, and M, for once, was pleased.

"Come in, 007." M showed Bond to a seat in the situation room. Also there was Tanner, M's head of intelligence, and Villiers, M's secretary.

The table they were sitting at also doubled as a touch-screen computer—new from Q Branch. A picture of Mitchell and his information was on the computer.  
"Craig Mitchell," Tanner began. "45-years-old, no living family, gave generously to charity."

M scoffed, "Tell me you know more than that!"

Tanner interrupted, " He passes a full lie detector and security check every year. Been M's bodyguard for two years. He, as well as his two accomplices, were paid through a bank account in Port au Prince, Haiti, a man named 'Greene', no first name wired the money, a total of three hundred thousand Euros each from a bank in Bern, Switzerland. Plus our men went through every bill in Mitchell's wallet and house. He had less than a hundred pounds sterling, and about the same in Euros and US dollars."

"What about Mitchell's men?" Bond asked.

Two coroners photos appeared on the computer as Mitchell and his information were dragged off to the side. "American, both CIA—Special Activities Division. They entered Siena last night on fake passports. There was a business card of a military contractor in one's pocket, but no other useful information."

Bond jumped on the clue. "The military contractor, does he have a name?"

Tanner brought up another photo of a blonde man, like Bond, but younger. It was a driver's license photo, so the man was dressed in a sleeveless polo shirt and smiling without showing teeth. "Mr. Edmund Slate, a British contractor and former SAS operative. He telephoned Mitchell and the two American sleepers from Haiti with a prepaid cell phone, purchased at a shopping mall in Miami the day before. He also is on the bank account of Greene."

"Is he still in Port au Prince?"

"Yes. At the Hotel Dessalines, room 325."

"I'm there." Bond said, straight-forward.

M spoke up, feeling quite fine after surviving her close-call in Siena. "Villiers, organize a flight from London to Port au Prince for 007."

Villiers nodded and left the room to get the paperwork ready.

M turned to Bond. "Bond, I'm giving you carte blanche on this operation. Find Mr. Slate and apply the necessary pressure to find out who Greene and Quantum are. I don't expect you to kill him. We don't want another incident like Siena."

Bond nodded and left the room. Villiers, who had Bond's plane ticket and clean passport with him, gave it to Bond. "Good luck, 007." He said, before getting back to work.

* * *

Bond remembered it vividly on the Virgin Airlines plane from London to Port au Prince. While the lights dimmed over the fuselage and the sky grew darker as the plane rose into the clouds, Bond fell back into a deep sleep. And then it began:

_"Bond, I got your note," M said, "We'll talk about that later—right now I have an anxious, but lovely man from the Treasury, wondering if you're ever going to deposit the winnings."  
Bond, laying at the foot of the bed, immediately sprang up. "That's a shame—I didn't think they'd miss it."  
"I told them not to worry, and that you'll be depositing it today."_

"I'm on my way to the bank right now." Bond hung up. He put on his shoes and raced out of the hotel, going down the grand staircase two steps at a time. While doing this he placed a call to Mr. Salvatore Mendel, head of the Basel Bank, the bank that sponsored the poker game in Montenegro. "Hello?"

"Mr. Mendel?" Bond said, "I'm having trouble accessing the funds in my account."

"It was transferred to the account number your company gave us, Mr. Bond." There was a pause, and then, "It appears the funds are being withdrawn as we speak."

Bond stopped, his heart skipped a beat. "Where?"

"The Venice branch, St. Mark's Square. Is there a problem, Mr. Bond?

Bond dropped the phone into his pocket and burst out of the hotel, scraping into several people in the process. He ran into the crowded streets looking for Vesper, identified only by her red cocktail dress and pinned-up black hair. Bond reached the Basel Bank, kicking in the door and looking inside. The line for withdraws was long, but Vesper wasn't among them. Juping out of the bank, Bond ducked into the alleys over the Venice canals. He was madly searching for Vesper, like an obsessed fan of a pop star. It seemed to confuse Bond because some of the people he passed resembled her, having the same hair but not in the dress. After several Vesper "look-alikes", Bond finally found his target.

She was still wearing the dress, but her hair was loose and dangling. She had a briefcase in her hand about the size of a DVD player—the winnings from Casino Royale.  
Ducking behind a pillar, Bond dug out his Walther P99 and the silencer, attaching it to the end of the gun. He put a full clip into the P99 and stuffed two more clips into his pockets. All this time he was feeling rage and resentment towards Vesper. He had remembered the gentlemen who she was scared of, a man distinguished by a black lens on his glasses. After asking around, Bond found out that the man was Gettler, a Swiss watch enthusiast who was in Venice on holiday. Why would Vesper be scared of a Swiss watch enthusiast?

Obviously Gettler had something to do with Le Chieffe's operation. There was an organization behind him, maybe another one behind the one pulling Le Chieffe's strings. The winnings had something to do with Vesper—this was planned from the beginning, when Bond first laid eyes on her on the train to Montenegro. Ever since she uttered the code word: "I'm the money." Bond was instantly smitten with her, and it was a match made in heaven.  
But this was just getting interesting.

_Bond was keeping his cool as he trailed Vesper along the canal. There was a construction site ahead of them, and in front of that, a courtyard. Bond walked over a bridge leading to the courtyard and stopped when he saw a shadow. It wasn't Vesper, nor Gettler, but a lookout. It was a man in an Armani suit with an H&K machine pistol. Bond surprised the man, and as he raised his gun to fire, Bond shot him between the eyes. Stepping over the lookout's body, Bond heard voices coming from the courtyard. It was Vesper and another man, presumably Gettler. Bond peered out from behind his hiding place and saw a grinning Gettler as Vesper presented him the silver briefcase with the money. Another man, about 6'00" tall was idling by the fountain. Bond could see a gun bulging under his coat._

Bond watched as Gettler retrieved the briefcase and handed it to the man next to the fountain. Bond ducked behind the pillar again, scraping his body against the stone. It made too much noise, and Gettler spun around, grabbing a knife and holding it to Vesper's throat. "Whoever you are, I'll kill her!" he yelled.  
"Allow me." Bond broke away from the pillar to fire at Gettler, but the sounds of automatic fire made Bond duck back behind cover as Gettler, Vesper, and his accomplice made a break for the construction site. From the building across the street, two sharpshooters with UMP submachine guns rained lead onto Bond's cover. Taking a chance, Bond sprinted across the courtyard, ducking behind the fountain, and then sliding to the tunnel leading to the construction site. The shooting suddenly stopped as the sharpshooters ran after Bond, reloading on the move.

Following Vesper's cries, Bond reached the mouth of the tunnel where the renovated canal-side building sat abandoned because of the weekend. As he came out of the tunnel, he saw the tall man, Gettler's accomplice, firing a pistol at him from behind a stack of crates. Bond fired the H&K through the wooden crates, sending the man sprawling and crawling out from behind his shattered cover. Bond shot the man in the chest as he crawled on his hands and knees back to the renovated house. Bond reloaded his gun, slung it over his shoulder, and pulled the Walther from his shirt pocket. He advanced, stepping over the tall man's body and crouching behind the door. Peering through the slats, Bond could see three tethered air bags, about the size of beer kegs, floating in the water. Bond also heard noise and looked up, and saw movement and activity from the iron cage elevator. He heard Gettler hiss to Vesper, "You agreed you'll come alone!"

"I tried." Vesper said, "But I couldn't stop him from following us."

"Worthless bitch!" A slap, and Vesper cried out, "James!"

Bond composed himself and burst through the doors, seeing a thug with a pistol and dispatching him. As the man fell to the floor, the two sharpshooters reappeared, their UMPs locked-and-loaded. Before they could fire, Bond shot one of the air bags and ducked behind a peeled wall. The air bag exploded and the house began to shake as the water beneath the house bubbled furiously. The sharpshooters relocated, climbing up a flight of creaky stairs to get a better vantage point and kill the intruder, but the British agent outsmarted them, and emptied his eleven-round clip into the two men. As they collapsed to the floor, Bond heard a crack-crack of a .45 automatic and saw Gettler firing down from the floor above. Bond ducked as Gettler emptied his pistol, and then reloaded. Then Bond heard Gettler yell, "Do it!" and then, a plop and then something hit Bond's feet. It looked like a pinecone, but in reality, a hand grenade, World War II-style. Bond uttered a four-letter obscenity and tossed the grenade into the water.

The grenade blew, and the air bags blew; now the house was at the mercy of the canal. And as the water rose, Bond moved up the stairs and to the second floor, grabbing a hold of the railing as the house shook and moaned, as if it were haunted and spontaneously became alive. He turned to find Gettler and another thug reloading their weapons. Bond fired at them, making them duck back behind the elevator. Then the house groaned and lurched forward, making the men fall off balance. Gettler's man with the suitcase lost his footing and fell down into the rising water, the winnings from Casino Royale floating away from the drowning-man's corpse.

"You're a dead man!" Gettler yelled and fired wildly into Bond's cover. Bond could also hear Vesper whimpering and screaming out for salvation. Bond set his jaw, spun around, and fired at Gettler, getting him in the arm. He disappeared into the clamor of the sinking house.

Vesper was on the next floor up, and Bond moved to where she was, trapped and defenseless. As he reached the elevator, Vesper was panicky and scared. "Look out!" she yelled.

Bond turned around and saw Gettler with a knife coming at him. Bond was too late to stop the knife from slicing into his arm. Bond grabbed the knife by the hilt and twisted Gettler's wrist. The stiletto clattered to the ground. Bond then pushed Gettler away and punched him. But now Gettler had found a new weapon, a semiautomatic nail-gun. Both men fought for control of this device, and it was only after Bond had head-butted Gettler, that Bond swung the nail-gun into Gettler's face and pulled the trigger. There was a plinking noise and a nail protruded grotesquely from Gettler's eye, the one with the dark lens over it.

Then a noise, Vesper screaming, a gun cocking, Bond seeing an Armani-clad thug with a pistol aimed at him. Bond fired the nail-gun twice, and the man went limp.  
"Nailed them both." Bond quipped.

* * *

_The elevator groaned and the water level was rising dangerously fast. The elevator's antiquated brakes couldn't take all the commotion, and it plunged into the water like a stone, Vesper screaming all the way down._

Bond took off his shoes and discarded his guns. He dove into the water after Vesper, reaching the elevator and seeing her look at him with those hazelnut-brown eyes. She looked sorry for him.

Bond tried to open the door, but the weight of the water was pressing on the metal frame. He was able to get an arm in and tried to grab her. She reached out and took his hand, balling it into a fist and kissing it, tenderly, gently. Bond felt it and went limp. Then Vesper backed away, her mouth open, sucking in the water, killing herself. Bond screamed at her, and it was only after she went sagged into the aqua-blue abyss that Bond was able to wrench open the elevator doors with all his might, pulling her from the elevator cabin, and rising up to the surface, which was now the house's sparsely-furnished roof.

_ The CPR: Chest compressions, mouth-to-mouth, repeat. Touching her wet hair, kissing her soggy lips madly—trying to revive her, to keep her alive.  
All of it was futile._

Somewhere away from the commotion, a man in sharp Armani suit walked away holding a briefcase containing more than 150 million in Euros.

_"The bitch is dead."  
"The bitch is dead."  
_"The bitch is dead."—

A surprised voice inquired, "What?"

Bond awoke from his nightmare/flashback to find a stewardess hovering over him, concerned. "Sir, are you alright?" she asked.  
"I'm fine." Bond replied gruffly, "It's been a rough flight."

"Would you like some Ambien?" the stewardess offered. She held out a small green capsule along with a paper cup of water.

"Why not?" Bond took the sleeping pill and swallowed it, then guzzled down the water and sighed openly. "Thank you."

"We land in Haiti in the morning." The stewardess reminded. "It's important to get some sleep. Good night, sir."

Bond hoped that in Haiti, he would find some closure. That maybe Mr. Slate would provide him with more clues.

Bond could only wait until morning to find out.

* * *

Haiti was still recovering from the recent cholera epidemic that ravaged the country as well as other unsightly waves of crime, unsanitary conditions, the decline of the dollar. The streets of Port au Prince looked like Deadwood or Dodge City from the American Wild West. Dusty streets, barely-furnished buildings, stray dogs begging for scraps, and gang members looking to rape, pillage, and plunder the town dry soured Bond's taste. This poor Caribbean island also was a hub for voodoo practices, brought back to life by a crazed dictator in the early 1970s. It was a shame to Bond that this nation had gone down the toilet after winning independence from the French in 1804. But, nonetheless, the people were happy, living day by day.

Bond took a taxi from the airport to the Hotel Dessalines. He paid the driver in advance and when the cab stopped in front of the hotel, Bond got out and stretched his aching limbs. He then walked into the hotel and found a map showing the rooms. Room 325 was on the third floor, and the hotel had an elevator—busted beyond repair. The stairs were the only way up.

Bond found the hotel to be adequate and well-kept, rather than most of the second-class hotels he had seen in Bermuda, Jamaica, and Aruba. He was looking around through the blue-tinted Tom Ford sunglasses when he found Room 325. Bond tried the door, it was locked. Bond took out his wallet and dug out his credit card. He inserted it between the door and the doorframe and got the door open in a jiffy. He looked around and stepped inside, pocketing the card as he entered the room.  
The hotel room was kept modestly with rotten, soiled furniture and pink walls with peeling wallpaper. There were a wall of beads over the doorway to the bedroom, flickering in the breeze that came in from an open window.

"Mr. Slate?" Bond bellowed. "Mr. Edmund Slate?"

The beads parted violently and Slate appeared, blonde-haired and dressed in a polo shirt, smiling evilly. A switchblade was in his hand, and he slashed at Bond. Bond ducked out of the way, grabbing a vase and smashing it into Slate's head. Slate backpedaled into the bedroom through the wall of beads. Bond followed him inside as Slate reciprocated, slashing with the small stiletto. But Bond countered the blows with kicks and jabs to the torso. It was then that Bond got the knife away from Slate and stabbed him through the neck with it. Both men then crashed through the doors to the outside balcony. During all of this, Slate was twisting on the floor, clutching his neck which was now spurting blood.

"What's Quantum?" Bond asked. "Who's Greene?"

Slate only groaned, his body tired of fighting. His eyes rolled back into his head and he died.

Bond looked at Slate, and then himself. _Shit, not this again!_

* * *

"Way to go, brother." A voice from behind said.

Bond spun around, finding a black man with a beard in a yellow-cream suit with brown loafers standing a few feet away. "Who are you?" Bond asked.

"Don't you remember me, brother?"

It then clicked in Bond's mind. "Felix, is that you?"

"Way to go, James." Felix laughed. "Way to go."

"I didn't mean for this to happen, Felix." Bond protested.

"That's what my ex-wife said when I found her in bed with a white man. The same results happened."

"Death?"

"Frustration. You just silenced our lead. Plus the boys at Langley aren't too happy with you and MI6 these days."

"Why?"

"In Italy you killed two of our Special Activities dicks. Both of them ten-year vets, with families, both wives named Linda, grown-up children."

"They were working against you, Felix."

"That's not what I heard. I've come to take you in." Two men in white cotton suits appeared behind Felix. "It's for your own good, James." Felix said.

Bond gulped. How was M going to get him out of this one? This wasn't Miami where Bond broke FAA and state regulations by rampaging through an airport, or violating international protocol by shooting up an embassy in Madagascar. This was detainment by one of the powerful intelligence departments in America.  
One of the men produced a pair of handcuffs. Bond was covered by the other man as the manacles were applied to him. The snapping of the steel handcuffs sealed his fate.

But Bond knew better than to give up.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Felix?" Bond asked as he was carted off. "You're making a big mistake."

"I hope this works out for the both of us, brother."

* * *

Bond was led by the two CIA men to the first flight of stairs. Bond pretended to bend over as if sick, so that one of the men holding him bumped into him. "I've done nothing wrong." Bond protested.

"Shut up!" the man holding Bond hissed. The man then spoke into a radio on his sleeve, "Ready transport in five, package coming down."

Bond then retracted his foot back, kicking the man in the groin. Bond, using his elbows and shoulders, pummeled the other man to the ground, and then kneed him in the chin, chipping some teeth and knocking him out. Bond then kicked the other downed man in the face, and then bent down to search for the keys. He found them in the man's jacket and undid the cuffs. Bond then handcuffed both men together and started to go down the steps, stopping midflight. He returned to the men and searched them for weapons. He found a .40 Glock Model 20 in a belt holster along with two extra clips. Bond pocketed the gun and took the radio and earphones off the second man, fastening it to his own head. Bond then turned around and back to the Room 325. Felix wasn't there, but Slate was. Even though Slate was dead, there might still be some clues. Bond searched the ransacked room from nook to cranny, finding a wallet and two kinds of forged passports. A business card was on the night table. It read "GREENE PLANET—PHILANTROPIC AND ECOLOGICAL AWARENESS & SECURITY SINCE 1995."

Bond had heard of Greene Planet in the magazines, how they were buying up large tracts of land in South America, Africa, and Southeast Asia for ecological preserves. Greene Planet also donated $200 million each to Indonesia, Thailand, and New Orleans, Louisiana to rebuild after the tsunamis and the hurricane. The head of Greene Planet was a shady, small man named Dominic Greene, a French national with degrees in colleges in Paris and the United States. He was also a big player in the US and European Stock Markets, and his American mistress had a million-dollar credit line with Tiffany and Cartier diamond and jewelry companies.

Everything started to come together in Bond's head: Greene Planet = Greene.  
But what was Quantum?  
Bond would have to ask one person, the person who wanted to bring him in. The only problem now was, that they weren't on the same page.  
He would have to ask Felix Leiter.


	4. Pursuit at Port au Prince

**4. Pursuit at Port Au Prince**

Bond had walked over the bodies of the now unconscious-CIA men, who remarkably weren't stirring after a beating by a savvy British agent. He walked into the lobby and handed the receptionist (Slate's) room key. "Any messages for 325?"

The receptionist looked in her rolodex, finding nothing. Then she looked up at Bond. "The only message was about the briefcase that was delivered earlier. Do you want us to continue holding it?"

"No, I'll take it now."

The receptionist went into the backroom and returned with a small silver attaché case. She handed it to Bond and he took it and walked away into the dilapidated atmosphere of the city. He only made it about sixty feet from the hotel entrance when a car came out of nowhere and stopped right in front of Bond. It was a Ford Ka, a new electric model, because of the sound the engine had made. It was different than regular gasoline-powered engines. The electricity made the car a lot quieter and incognito. It looked like one of the fanciest cars in all of Haiti. Many of the cars that Bond had seen during his seventeen minute visit was old '90s and '80s jalopies and two-tone pickup trucks. Most of them were probably stolen.

The car's window was down and Bond could see inside. A woman with brown hair tied back, an orange blouse and brown skirt. She spoke with a Spanish accent. "Get in."

"What?"

"Get in."

Bond looked around, seeing no other opposition. Not wanting to keep a lady waiting, he accepted and got into the car, which then turned away and floated into the city traffic.

The woman spoke again. "You're late."

"I got pulled into a meeting."

"Who with?"

"A friend of Mr. Greene's."

There was a pause, the woman was clearly aggravated with the name. "I don't think I know him."

A traffic light was up ahead, and the Ford slowed down as it approached the intersection. "Is that a friend of yours?"

Bond turned around, expecting the CIA or Felix Leiter. However, it was a Haitian on a dirt bike two car lengths back, peering intently into the Ford.

Bond looked at the mystery woman. "I don't have any friends."

The woman then floored the gas, the electric car zipped forward and the man on the dirt bike struggled to follow. Cars in the intersection honked and swerved to miss the little electric car, causing a pileup with other cars in the intersection. The Ford drove down the street and disappeared into a back alley. When Bond looked back, the Haitian was gone.

Bond was interested with the briefcase on his lap. He thought it might've been another clue. He was curious that he had already lifted the woman's driver's license from her purse and slid it into his khaki jeans pocket. The briefcase could've been anything, even a bomb, for all he knew. The only way to find out was to open it. As he did the car came to a stop. The woman leaned over to Bond and found a folder with papers in it, taking it out of the briefcase. When Bond looked back inside, he found a photograph of a woman, the same woman who was offering Bond a ride. Also in the briefcase was a gun, and that made Bond's nerves go numb. He wasn't expecting this.

"What the hell is this?" the woman asked, annoyance and frustration in her voice. Bond looked and saw her rifling through the folder, which was nothing but blank white papers.

"Ma'am," Bond said, "I think somebody wants to kill you."

Like Siena, Bond never saw the actions of the next events. She drew a gun from under her blouse and tried to shoot Bond in the head, but he grabbed the gun and, consequently, it went off, the passenger-side window exploded outwards. The woman got scared, dropped the gun in Bond's lap, and started to drive away. Bond dove out the passenger door when the car was rolling down the alley, landing in a heap of foul-smelling trash bags.

".38 Special." Bond, smelling the cordite, noted.

A rumbling noise came from behind him, and Bond looked up to see the Haitian on the dirt bike, frowning in disbelief. _"What's wrong wit you?"_ he said in a thick Caribbean accent. "You were supposed to shoot her!"

"Well I missed." Bond started to walk away, but the Haitian got off the bike, pulled a gun, and pointed it at Bond.

The Brit slammed his right hand into the sternum of the Haitian, grabbed the gun, brought it to the ground, and kicked it away from him. He grabbed the Haitian by the collared shirt and shoved him up against a wall. "Where's the girl going?"

"The girl is 'Camille'." The Haitian fessed up. "She's going to the docks. Meet with her man there."

"Is it Greene?"

"I don't know. Some big people coming into Haiti today—might have something to do with her."

"'Big people'?"

"South Americans… a general, I heard…Greene doesn't tell me everything!"

Bond left the Haitian dazed and confused as he took the dirt bike and started it up. He left the alley and went onto the street, weaving in and out of cars on the way to the docks. While doing this, he called M.  
"_Yes, Double-O Seven?"_

"I'm on my way to meet Dominic Greene. He's in Haiti today receiving warm welcomes from a South American general."_  
"Bond, we've just been informed by the CIA that—"_

"Don't go sucking shit for them, M. You're better than that."  
_  
"The CIA has a capture-or-kill order out on you. Your friend, Leiter, is in Port-au-Prince wondering why the hell you aren't in manacles on a plane to Washington."_

"Those men who I killed in Siena were traitors—they were members of Quantum."  
_  
"We don't know that, Bond."_

"I'm about to prove it to you."  
He hung up and continued the drive to the docks, looking for the Ford in every intersection.

When he reached the docks, he saw the Ford parked nearby, and he saw the woman, Camille, walk past two Hawaiian-shirt wearing Haitians with guns, a temper flaring in her voice. She approached a man in a bowl cut, talking French into a cell phone. When he saw Camille he dropped the phone and tried to stop her, but the fiery woman brushed him aside. Bond watched both of them disappear into a building as he got off the motorbike and approached one of the guards. Bond dug his Universal Exports business card out of his pocket and handed it to the guard, who looked at Bond with suspicion.

"Give that to the girl and tell her to call me." Bond instructed.  
The guard grunted and walked away, slinging the Uzi submachine gun over his shoulder.

What the guard didn't know was that the business card was actually a telephone bug. By calling the number on the card it would clone any cellular phone frequency and give all of its information to MI6, who would transmit the same intelligence to Bond right away. Bond hoped that the phone that Camille or Dominic Greene was using would be cloned by the card, so that Bond could access it on his own phone. As Bond walked back to the dirt bike, a black van screeched around the corner of the docks and stopped behind some market stalls selling fish and spicy foods. The back doors opened and six men in tactical gear, Kevlar armor, and helmets with balaclavas, got out and fanned out in multiple directions. It wasn't the Haitian police. Bond looked and saw one of them turn, and he saw the American flag on the armband, and then below it, the CIA insignia. "CIA Special Activities Division." Bond noted. He would have to move fast. With the CIA's presence in Haiti, Bond had run out of time. This wasn't a country that Bond could easily blend into, he was sticking out like a sore thumb, and the CIA would probably have put tracks on his passports and credit cards. If all of this was going to stop, he would have to find Felix. It was either killed or be killed, and Bond ducked behind an abandoned market stall and hid from the men's view. Bond cursed at them for their presence. The gear, the automatic weapons, would certainly tip of Greene and his South American friend. The meeting would be canceled, and Bond would hate to let that happen.

Then his phone chirped. The business card ploy had worked. Within seconds the target cell phone's data appeared on Bond's Smartphone. The target user ID was "Elvis". Bond made a mental note to run it by MI6, if he could get out of the country alive. As far as he knew, he was the most wanted man in the world. This was complicating things, and making it worse for him. First he lost Vesper and the money, and then he was hunted by his American friends. All this had to tie into Quantum and Greene Planet somehow. All Bond needed to do was to find out what connection Greene had with this general. And he got his answer. A boat, a Sunseeker Hawk 34, was coasting up to the docks with three men on board, wearing florid cotton shirts. One of the men was big and hefty with a fat handlebar moustache. Three more men similarly dressed were surrounding him—probably a security detail. As the boat arrived at the docks, the Haitian guards immediately greeted the hefty man, who then took him into the building to see Greene. Moments later Greene and the man, along with another guard, sauntered down the dockyards, talking. Bond couldn't hear them, but it assumed it had to be business. Then Camille appeared, lounging next to a stack of crates. Bond heard the general laugh, and then watched him go over to Camille and hug her, but she wasn't giving into his affections. This clicked in Bond's head. Obviously she and the general were into some kind of feud. Bond was still contemplating this as the general and Camille climbed into the Sunseeker Hawk and drift away towards a bigger boat, the general's yacht.

Bond looked back to where the black van was, seeing three men around it, and the other three searching the perimeter. Bond was too far away to be noticed, so he calmly walked towards his motorbike and started it up. He backed up and revved the engine. Seeing a ramp, Bond took off towards it at full speed. The motorbike jumped into the air, landed onto a jetty, then fell onto another boat. Bond jumped off the bike and climbed into the boat, starting the engine. He then maneuvered it around the dockside traffic to where the general's yacht was. Bond could see the other boat more than fifty feet away. Bond then looked behind him, seeing the CIA men still standing at the pier, not noticing the British agent's stunts.

The general's boat slowed down as it approached the yacht. Bond accelerated and in minutes the boat was next to the port side of the general's. Bond switched off the motor and climbed onto the port side ladder. Climbing up, Bond got onto the boat and scurried around to the steps that led to the bridge. Climbing up the steps, he found the general and Camille stepping off onto the yacht. Bond cursed, drawing his Glock, and keeping himself low to the floor.

Bond jumped over the boat and clambered onto the yacht. Seeing a deckhand with an M16 rifle, Bond grabbed the wall-mounted life preserver and threw it at him like a discus. It stunned the deckhand long enough for Bond to toss him overboard into the water. He then re-gripped his Glock and went looking for Camille.

* * *

General Luis Medrano was happy with his catch. The young girl from the late Colonel Ernesto Montes was finally his. Greene told him to have fun with her before dumping her off over the side. It was Greene's gift to him, in honor of their new relationship. In four days the country of Bolivia would be in his hands, a long-awaited moment in his life. All thanks to Greene and Quantum, and Camille.

Medrano told one of his deckhands to bring him a beer, not caring about Camille's wants and needs. They went into his quarters, a well-furnished room with a queen-size bed with a full bathroom. He told Camille to lay down on the bed to rest while he went into the bathroom. It was time to make himself ready, to rape her and kill her. Six years after he murdered the girl's family, it was time to complete the job and send her, the remaining member of the Montes family, into the bottom of the Caribbean.

* * *

Bond walked along the halls of the ship looking for the general's quarters. He found a room with the door half-closed, a "Do not Disturb" sign written in Spanish and English was hanging on the doorknob. This was the one. Bond slipped the gun in his left hand and, using his right, twisted the knob. As the door popped open, he burst in, the Glock ready. Bond only finding Camille on the bed, her eyes looked up at him in horror. "You?"

"Come on." Bond said, "Let's go."  
"No!"

Bond didn't have time to play around. He grabbed Camille and knocked her out, before throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off. He ran into a deckhand with an M16, and Bond shot him. He didn't care about the noise. He ran through the ship with his captive, shooting more guards and yelling before finding the general's personal motor launch. He plopped Camille in the boat, unhooked the launch from the yacht itself and started the engine.

The boat shot forward and was soon out of rifle range. But as Bond turned to look back, he saw three more launches coming at him, the occupants firing machine guns. Bond opened the throttle and the small launch shot forward, weaving through the maritime traffic. Shots bounced off the boat's hull and skipped into the blue water, Bond swung the boat around to avoid another volley of automatic gunfire.

Just then, a crack came at the back of his head. His knees buckled and he went down, turning to see the woman he'd dragged off trying to claw at Bond's face. He countered it by grabbing her wrist and pulling her off of him. In the process, she tried to gouge out Bond's right eye with her thumb. She was screaming and twisting like a cornered bobcat. "You _pendejo_! Take me back!"

"Maybe I'll do that later."

She grabbed Bond by his hair and tried to bash his brains out on the floor. "You're not one of Greene's!"

Bond pulled the fiery woman off of him, took control of the boat, and steered it towards the clearest part of the harbor. He looked back at the woman who had calmed down, and now was hunkered on the floor as enemy bullets whistled and zinged all around.

Looking back once more, he drew the borrowed Glock and tried to get a bead on the closest boat's occupants. He squeezed the trigger twice, both shots going wide, but a third shot hit the boat's petrol tanks, and the launch erupted in a mediocre fireball. It was then the second launch rocketed forward and cut alongside, the gunners swinging their automatic rifles to bear on Bond.

He fired two rounds, and the nearest gunner backpedaled and fell into the water. The launch then decelerated, then maneuvered behind Bond and throttled forward.  
The Brit threw his own throttle downwards, the engines died, and the boat came to a standstill. The opposing launch rammed into the back of Bond's boat, sending the occupants flying back, their own boat stuck above Bond's.

Bond found the anchor line and grabbed it, tossing it upwards onto the other boat. He then turned back towards the controls and pulled the throttle upwards. The launch shot forward, and the enemy launch, snagged on the other boat's anchor line, was propelled upwards, nose-first, like a toy. The boat then capsized, the occupants were either now dead or dying.

Bond then looked down at the woman, who surprisingly, wasn't hit by any of the stray fire. She looked up at Bond like a battered dog. She said, softly, "Now you'll take me back."

Bond shook his head in noncompliance. "I've got other plans for you." He then turned the boat to starboard and sped away.

A few minutes past, and Bond saw a jetty with some people on the catwalk. He steered the boat alongside the jetty and killed the engines, throwing a Haitian dockhand the line. As the man secured the boat to the jetty, Bond picked up the girl in a fireman's carry and stepped out onto the catwalk.

He then walked past the man towards the mainland, where another dockhand was sitting alongside a big fishing boat in a plastic lawn chair, drinking a canned Bud Lite, and listening to American hip-hop music on a battered ghetto blaster radio. At the sight of Bond, he got out of the chair. In a Caribbean accent, he offered, "Ice cold beer and big fish, sir! Where we go?"

Bond plopped the girl on the deck of the fishing boat, the Haitian catching her before she smacked into the fiberglass bottom. He replied, "No thanks. I've got my catch, and she's seasick." He then walked away off the end of the jetty without looking back.

It was now that Bond had entered a small shipyard, with several used and dilapidated ships sat forgotten by time. Some Haitians were fussing with some power tools to restore one of them, a big fishing boat titled: "Maggie May—Key West". As Bond got closer, a red two-door SUV pulled up to the men. Much to the delight of his friends, he brought along a six-pack of beer. As the Haitians laughed, regaled with American rap music, and cracking open cold longneck bottles, Bond slid into the driver's seat of the Ford Bronco, placed the vehicle in drive, and set off. He was gone before the hardworking Haitians noticed.

Bond then reached into his pocket and retrieved his Smartphone. He punched in M's extension. It was best he explained himself.

Villiers, M's secretary, picked up the phone on the first ring. "Yes?"

A voice on the other end replied, _"It's Bond. I need her now."  
_  
Villiers sighed, and then punched a button that transferred the call to M's office. He stated, "It's 007."

M had looked up from her computer to grab the phone off the desk. She replied, "Yes, 007?"

_"I want you to run a name check: 'Dominic Greene.'"_

M sighed angrily. "I just got off the phone with the Americans, Bond. They're requesting that you come in. Or else they'll hold us accountable for what happens afterwards."  
_"Just do it_."

Tanner, standing across the room, began a search query on the Surface computer. In seconds, it scanned hundreds of possible names through Interpol, MI6, CIA, DGSE, and SVR databases. Tanner asked, "They're a lot of Dominic Greene's, 007. Do you have a Social Security or passport number?"  
"_No."  
_  
M then interrupted. "What happened to Slate, Bond?"

_"I'm not dwelling on the past, ma'am. I don't think you should either."  
_  
M rolled her eyes and glared up at Tanner as the search query came up positive with the largest hit. He stated, "Top match is Dominic Greene, CEO of Greene Planet. Apparently, Greene's been doing a lot of philanthropic work, buying up large tracts of land for use as ecological preserves."

_"Send me his picture and file._"

"Done."

M said, "Bond, come back to London so we can sort out this mess."

_"I'll have to call you back._" Then the connection went dead.

M sighed angrily again and barked at Tanner, "Get me the Americans."

* * *

Bond drove along the outer rim of Port-au-Prince as his cell phone beeped. Looking at the screen, Tanner had kept his promise. He had sent the picture of Dominic Greene, a small man with brown hair, a faint moustache, and piercing black eyes. According to the file, Greene was about 32-years-old, and approximately 5'8" tall. Then the Smartphone rang again. It wasn't MI6 calling, but the cloned cell phone used by Elvis. Bond listened in to the call:

Elvis: _"Boss, the plane is ready and fueled to take you to Innsbruck. There we will go to Bregenz."  
_Dominic Greene: _"Good, I'll be ready in thirty minutes. Are the Americans on board?"  
_Elvis: "Yes, sir. They are working for the American government."  
Dominic Greene: _"Bon. Merci beaucoup._"  
James Bond switched off the cell phone and did a U-turn, heading towards Toussaint L'Overture International Airport. He had a new destination in mind, and it wasn't back to London.  
But Bregentz, Austria.


	5. A Night at the Opera

**5. A Night at the Opera**

Dominic Greene sat in the Ford Edge SUV, driving down a dirt road towards a desolate airstrip. As the SUV got closer to the runway, the likeness of a Learjet G6, twin-engine small private jet materialized from beyond the tall grass.

Greene smiled. He enjoyed having pleasant things, and rich people very often loved to fly away on vacations, maybe some private island in the South Pacific.  
But not for now. Today's flight was purely for business. Greene leaned back in the seat as the Ford came to a stop beside the G6. He got out, and was met by his trusted aide, a tall, lanky man with a bowl cut and an eagle beak. Greene called him "Elvis".

_"Bonjour._" Elvis greeted, and stepped aside so that Greene could get into the jet first. As they did so, Elvis retracted the folding stairs and they made their way towards their seats. Also in the plane were two other men. One was of average height, sporting a moustache, a pair of glasses over his eyes and wearing a blue suit. He greeted Dominic Greene in his best French.

The other man was black, with a jet-black beard and a yellow-cream-colored suit and brown loafers. He was sitting at the rear of the plane, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  
Dominic Greene took a seat in the captain's chair, stitched with smooth brown leather, and announced, "Welcome aboard my private plane, gentlemen."

The blue-suited man spoke with a Texan accent, "Nice to meet ya, Mr. Greene."

"Please, Mr. Beam, my friends call me 'Dominic.'"

"Sorry." Gregory Beam turned to his black-skinned colleague and introduced, "Mr. Greene, meet my friend Felix Leiter. 'Agent' Leiter, that is."

An annoyed Felix Leiter waved a hand to shush the Texan.

Now the pilot announced into the main cabin through a microphone, "Welcome aboard everyone, we have just been given clearance for takeoff for Innsbruck. Please keep your seatbelts securely fastened until we reach our standard cruising altitude. Our total flight time to Innsbruck is five hours and forty-three minutes. Welcome aboard everyone and have a pleasant flight."

As the G6 taxied off the runway and reached its cruising altitude, Greene went into the bathroom and changed from his cotton shirt and pants to a dinner jacket, a crisp white shirt, and black slacks with matching shoes. Afterwards, Beam began to discuss matters with the CEO of Greene Planet. "I'd like to discuss your matters in South America, Mr. Greene."

Greene smiled and replied, "Don't worry, Mr. Beam, from what I have to say, you won't be disappointed."

Thirty minutes later, and five miles above the earth, the captain turns off the seatbelt sign. Almost on cue, a shapely female steward began cabin service. After a few rounds of scotch, Beam was in a good mood. Dominic Greene spoke up and began his business proposition. "Do we have an understanding, Mr. Beam?"

"Loud and clear. We in the CIA do nothing to stop a coup in Bolivia, and in exchange, the new government gives America the lease to any oil found."

"If it's oil you want?"

Beam belched. "We'll have to verify the find."

"_Mon ami, _you are getting this for free. You see, you are tied up in the Middle East with oil in Iraq and Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan. South America is where the real action is. Venezuela, Brazil, now Bolivia, they are all falling like dominoes."

Beam took another swig of scotch. "I will assure you that the CIA will take no action against the coup in La Paz that we know nothing about."

"_Bon. _Thank you, Mr. Beam." Greene then motioned for Elvis, who removed a cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. "I also have a pest."

Elvis tossed Beam the phone, the screen showing a security camera photo of a blonde man with blue eyes. Beam looked at the screen, and then tossed the iPhone to Leiter. "Do you have any idea who that is?"

Leiter caught the phone and looked at the screen, studying it. He then handed the phone back to Elvis with a puzzling shrug. "Sorry."

Beam stared into Leiter's skull, a frown on his face. "That's James Bond, British Secret Service. 'Licensed to kill' I believe he is?"

"Yeah."

"I thought he was in custody."

Leiter looked down at the floor. "No, sir."

Beam, eager to please Greene, offered, "I will talk to the Deputy Director at Langley. I'll get him back, no matter what it takes."

Greene shook his head. "I do not want him caught." He paused for effect, "I want him taken care of."

"I didn't know how we could've missed that." Beam then smiled. "That's not going to be a problem."

The men in the cabin then sat silent as the plane neared the border of Portugal. There, at a seaside airstrip, the G6 was refueled. At around 5 pm, the plane took off for Innsbruck, Austria. After a final round of cabin service, the Learjet finally touched down at a quiet, private airport in Innsbruck. A Bentley Continental luxury car had preceded the jet's arrival, and rushed to the tarmac to collect Greene and Elvis. Greene looked at his American business associate, who waved him goodbye. As the Bentley took off for the drive to Bregenz, Leiter asked Beam a serious question. "Are we really in bed with Greene, sir?"

Beam scoffed, "Yeah, right. We should just deal with nicer people."

"But, sir—"

Beam interrupted, "I need to know that you're on the team, Felix. Tell me right now that you understand."  
Leiter sighed, "Yes, sir."

Both men then went through the airport terminal to get on another plane for the long nine-hour flight to Bolivia. Beam, the CIA Section Chief to South America, and Felix Leiter, the top American agent, had just signed a deal to keep their mouths shut.  
Leiter seemed powerless to stop it, and that's what he feared the most.

* * *

The Ford Taurus SE kept a sedate 60 mph speed on the A10, the main highway that ran from Bregenz to the west, to Vienna in the east. James Bond used the homer on Elvis's cell phone to keep a safe distance behind the Bentley. It was a two-hour drive to Bregenz, Greene's real destination was unknown, however.

Bregenz, Austria was home to several popular sights, including the old town hall and Lake Constance, which was near the town. Bond bypassed them all as he continued to track the Bentley as it left the A10 and turned onto the narrow cobblestone streets. A few minutes later, the Bentley stopped in the valet lot of a large building. It was the local opera house. The banners advertised the premier of the classic Italian opera _Tosca.  
_  
Bond watched Greene get out of the Bentley, followed by Elvis, the driver, and two bodyguards. They then walked into the opera house all together and disappeared inside.  
Ditching the car in the alley, Bond found the back way in, down a hallway that led to several dressing rooms. A clothes rack featured several eighteenth-century costumes and some tuxedoes. Bond found a tux that fit him and ditched his black shirt and tan khaki jeans. He also put on a new pair of loafers. As a final touch, he tucked the Walther P99 in the armpit holster of his shirt, secured his backup Walther PPK to his ankle, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Ready to do business, Bond left the dressing room and avoided the main hall, where Greene was present and security was tight. He walked through a door to a flight of stairs and took them up to the top. When he opened a door to the outside, Bond was surrounded by guests in suits and evening gowns. Many of them were drinking champagne. Bond ignored them and went out to the balcony that led to the lobby. In the lavish room, guests were given their tickets and a gift bag, and then were screened at metal detectors by security. From this, entire Bond could see the line in which guests were receiving gift bags. A blonde-haired man in glasses approached the counter. The woman behind it slid her hand underneath the table, retrieving a black bag and handing it to the man. This was odd, as the other guests were receiving gift bags from the top of the table.

Bond's ice-blue eyes locked onto his target, tailing him all the way to the mezzanine. In a few minutes, Bond had gotten through to the man, pulling him into the men's bathroom out of sight from the other viewers. The fight was swift and without warning, Bond moved at the speed of a wild animal. He chopped the man's neck with a flat hand, knocking him out. Bond then sat him on the toilet seat, took the gift bag, and emptied the contents into the sink.

The contents of the gift bag included the program of _Tosca—_Giacomo Puccini's famous opera set during the Napoleonic Wars in Italy. The program said the play lasted for three hours, beginning at 09:00 with a twenty-minute intermission in-between the third and fourth acts. This absolutely made no sense to Bond, asking himself _Why would Greene go to an opera on a business trip?_

Digging some more, Bond found a pair of cufflinks, platinum with an elaborate "Q" fastened to it. Obviously this was the symbol for "Quantum". Now another clue had revealed itself, Greene and other Quantum members were meeting here to discuss business possibly during the intermission.

Then, another clue, this one the damning smoking gun. Bond found a small black-velvet box, like the kind used in jewelry stores for engagement rings. Opening the box, he found a small earpiece, inspected it, and screwed it into his ear. In doing so, he noted the earpiece's frequency and sent it to MI6 to be passed onto analysts, who would decipher the chatter into actionable intelligence. Bond hoped that this would seal the fate of Greene, Greene Planet, and Quantum. Satisfied with his findings, Bond packed up the cufflink, program, and empty box into the gift bag, and then went over to the dazed man that had been lying on the toilet. Bond placed the gift bag on the man's lap, stepped away from the body, and then went outside to the atrium. To prevent the man from raising the alarm, Bond broke the door handle and tossed the curved piece of metal aside. Now no-one would interrupt the meeting.

Bond walked around the atrium to the stage entrance. Below him, more than 200 people were flooding into the audience to take their seats. He saw Greene, Elvis, and three other men walk away from the crowd. An aide escorted them away from Bond's view, up a flight of steps labeled "VIP BOXES ↑ ENTRY RESTRICTED." Out of all the Quantum operatives planted within the opera audience, Greene presumably had the "best seat in the house".

By this time, Bond had reached the stage, gone under the orchestra pit, and climbed up a flight of steps that gave a great view of Lake Constance. He had climbed up more steps and two ladders, finally reaching a vantage point embedded in the framework. It was just in time too, for the orchestra flared up and the play had begun, the tens of hundreds of audience members in their seat, with a few Quantum operatives spread among them.

It was then the frequency chatter came into Bond's ear, clear as crystal. A woman's exotic voice, possibly Venezuelan, came first,, _"Any word from Canadian Intelligence?"_

Another voice, Russian heavily accented in English shushed her, "_We'll get to that later. How much more pipeline do we need?"  
_  
Greene's voice came online, sitting comfortably in the VIP skybox, surrounded by Elvis and his bodyguards. Greene said, _"Ideally, two-thousand kilometers. We are ready to begin drilling within the week. Any objections?"_

There was a long pause, then voices of all different accents and dialects came online.

A Pakistani voice replied, "_No."_

The Venezuelan whispered, _"No._"__

A Japanese voice chimed, "_No._"

The Russian replied, _"Not here."_

An Israeli piped up, _"No objections._"

Greene took control of the meeting. _"Good, transfer the funds from our Siberian holdings, Mr. Karakov._"

The Russian's voice, Karakov, obliged, _"No problem."_

The opera continued for a moment, with one of the characters, Baron Scarpia, the head of the secret police, barges into a chapel, looking for another character, the escapee Angelotti.

About five minutes later, the meeting changed to a new topic. _"Where do the Americans stand?" _The Venezuelan whispered.

Greene reminded her, _"The CIA doesn't care about another dictator in South America as long as we give them their end."  
_  
The Israeli cautioned, _"But when the CIA finds out that they've been cheated—duped—dimed?_"

Another voice, a British one, reassured him, _"Mr. Soref, Her Majesty's government is working on that."_

That made Bond gulp loudly, his knees go weak. Surely Quantum had many friends, but inside the British government? The corruption had now spread too far.  
Bond calmed down to listen in again. The Pakistani attendee was the holdout. _"Perhaps the Tierra Project isn't the best use of Quantum's time. I think we shall shift our focus to the Canadian."_

Greene hid the frustration in his voice, telling everyone , _"Let me assure you that the Tierra Project is completely foolproof. This is the world's most precious and important resource, we need to control as much of it as we can. I've already begun destabilizing the government. Bolivia is and must be a top priority."_ He paused for effect.

Bond had realized that he had enough of listening in. He inquired coolly, _"Gentlemen, may I offer an opinion?"  
_  
No one spoke up, Bond probably thought that they were checking their earpieces and looking around for the mysterious, new voice in the crowd of thousands.

Bond continued, _"I really think that you people should find a better place to meet?"_ He thought about saying, _"Dominic Greene, I know all about you. Put your hands up and show yourself"_ (But this was no time for bad jokes.)

Then, a voice, the Englishman's, hissed, _"Who is that? Dominic?"  
_  
The Pakistani chirped up, _"You said that this is a secure location!"  
_  
The Russian coughed before exclaiming, _"Whoever that was, find him now Dominic! Find him or the deal's off!"_

The Japanese said, _"Fifteen hours of flight for this?"  
_  
Bond smiled at the thought of listening to Greene being chewed out by his associates. Looking down below, Bond saw five individuals scattered around the audience stand up and begin to slowly make their way to the exits. Bond took out his Smartphone, snapping pictures of the profiles of three of them—the Russian, the Brit, and the Israeli. The others were too far away to be photographed. With a push of the button, he sent them back to MI6 for analysis. There, the voices will be matched to the faces, and they would be of important interest in Quantum's doings.

"I guess _Tosca _isn't for everyone." Bond smiled.

In VIP skybox number three, Dominic Greene was fuming. He thought about his investors, his plans for the future of Bolivia and South America, all squashed by an unsightly pest.

Elvis tapped Greene on the shoulder, whispering, "Let's go. We're blown."

Greene sighed angrily before getting up out of his plush chair to the door. once outside the skybox, he was flanked by a bodyguard on his left, Elvis on his right, his driver and two more Armani-clad thugs behind him, moving very fast down the hallway to get to the car.

Bond had seen a man coming up the stairs, a pistol in his hand. Bond shot him, but the gunman was replaced by another, firing more shots at Bond's location. A stray shot blew the Walther P99 out of his hand, rendering it useless. He reciprocated by drawing the Walther PPK/S, aiming, and firing a shot into the man's forehead. Once he was all clear, he advanced down the stairs, crossed the bridge over Lake Constance to the opera house, and jumped over a small railing that separated the set from the audience. The patrons were fixated on the play, not the British agent pocketing the Walther, walking up the steps towards the mezzanine.

Once inside the opera house, James Bond moved towards the skyboxes, located on the third tier. Crossing around the atrium, he noticed three Quantum connections, the Pakistani, the Japanese, and the Venezuelan, walking with their respective bodyguards out of the building. Bond leaned over the railing with his Smartphone and took snapshots of their profiles, all at this time being discreet. He sent them to MI6, pocketed the phone, and continued his hunt for Greene.

* * *

Dominic Greene was at the third tier stairwell, heading downstairs to the car pool. Bordered by his bodyguards and Elvis , they rounded the corner to the other set of stairs heading down them before stopping on the landing. The small, round-headed philanthropist had seen a blonde man stopping just thirty-feet away from him.

Greene's eyes bulged and his heart skipped a beat.

Elvis's mouth hung open, too stiff to say anything.

The British pest had drawn his gun, and a bodyguard nudged Greene's shoulder, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, asking, _Shall I go?  
_  
Green nodded, "Take care of him, now!" Like a world leader under imminent threat from assassins, Elvis and the driver pushed Greene down an alternate hallway while the two bodyguards took off after the Brit.

Dominic Greene, now jogging down the hallway, spoke into his earpiece, "We need backup at the restaurant. Target is a blonde man, early-forties, armed and dangerous. Get him!"

* * *

Bond turned and sprinted down the hallway leading to the restaurant. He barged in, throwing aside the hostess and a busboy like ragdolls, moving down one aisle of tables. A young waiter in a white suit-jacket tended to a middle-aged couple in a booth by the bar. As he bent over to fill the champagne glasses, Bond brushed him aside, knocking him to the ground. Then, he spun round with the PPK leveled in the direction of the restaurant's main entrance.

The first target appeared, dressed in a tux with his pistol out. Bond shot him in the neck, before the other gunmen burst through the door, firing wildly and spraying rounds all over the dining area. Bond, a relaxed and disciplined marksman, returned fire with pinpoint accuracy, dropping the man beside his dead partner.

However, more tuxedo-clad hostiles rushed in, toting pistols and at least one submachine gun. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Bond jumped over the bar between a lovely blonde sitting at the counter, and a buzzed elderly man beside her, shouldering open the door to the kitchen and brushing past several stunned cooks. He rounded the corner, seeing the other door open to find a man standing there, a Glock 19 double-action pistol in his hand. Bond ducked down to avoid the shots, tipping over a tray of hot oil onto a burning stove in the process. The searing heat and _woompf_ of the flame gave Bond a temporary smokescreen as he bolted towards the emergency exit, towards a stairwell He ran up a flight then burst through the door leading to the roof.

* * *

In the auditorium, seat 26K, a middle-aged man sat next to his lovely wife of thirty years. He wore an earpiece and was listening to the entire fracas going on in the restaurant area. Gunshots and cries for pain, shouts of "Shut this area down now,", "We've got casualties!", and "I've spotted the target!" all filled his ear. The shots being fired were so loud that the man flung the device from his ear and dropped it to the floor.

His wife looked over to him, "Darling, are you alright?"

Mr. White looked at her and smiled, "I'm fine, just enjoy the performance, will you?"

* * *

The door flung open to find a man in a black tux, holding a Glock 19 9-mm pistol. He didn't know that his target was preparing an ambush, finding out only when the muzzle of a Walther PPK/S was pressed into his neck. "Drop it!" Bond yelled.

The man dropped the Glock to the metal scaffold.

Bond pulled the man down the scaffold and crossed to the roof. He asked him, "Who are you working for?" in English and in German.

What Bond got was a British euphuism of: "Piss off!"

Double-O Seven had had enough of this. He swung the man around so that his back faced the ledge of the roof. It was a good twenty-meter to the ground. Bond asked him again, "I asked you: 'who are you working for?'"to punctuate the threat, he raised the PPK at the man's face and tilted the hammer to full-cock.  
The man didn't say a word.

* * *

Greene had made his way out to the Bentley Continental, the driver opening the door for him. Greene stepped inside, followed by Elvis, and the driver lastly got behind the helm of the luxury automobile.

Elvis touched the earpiece fitted in his head, saying, "None of the men are answering their radios."

Greene replied, "It doesn't matter." He then barked at his driver, a man with an eagle beak-nose and large cheekbones "Get us out of here!"

* * *

The Brit and his captive were still above the car pool on the roof. The man who had earlier shot at Bond brushed him away, grabbing onto Bond's jacket to avoid being hurled over the ledge.  
Bond simply brushed the man away, and his body landed spread-eagled on a Bentley car below.  
Putting away the PPK and fixing his cufflinks, Double-O Seven walked away to an adjacent scaffolding—a fire escape, that led to the ground. Bond climbed down the ladder and the stairs, reaching the pavement.

* * *

Greene had heard a thump which jolted him for a bit. He looked and saw a blonde man lying on his back on the Bentley's bonnet. It wasn't Bond, but a Quantum bodyguard, judging by his cufflinks.

Greene looked at Elvis, who was dumbstruck as to what this man was. "Is he one of ours?" he asked Elvis.

Elvis shook his head, "No."

Greene acted like a scared star being swarmed by envious paparazzi, covering his face with his hands and tilting his head down. "He shouldn't be looking at me. Get rid of him."  
The driver nodded, got out of the car, and pulled a Steyr M-9 pistol from his jacket. By this time, the blonde Quantum lackey had regained his footing beside the Bentley. He raised a hand to ask for a reprievement. But the driver fired three shots into the man's chest. Then, he stepped forward and shot him in the face. Satisfied, the driver tucked the gun in his armpit holster and then got back into the Bentley, moved the gearshift lever into D, and drove away from the opera house.

Bond had heard three distant _pops_ followed by a fourth, and rushed to investigate, drawing the PPK. He reached the car pool to find the man he had thrown off the roof, lying motionless on the ground. Tucking away the Walther, Bond noticed several opera patrons rushing from the exit, presumably after the shootout in the restaurant. A policeman appeared, speaking into a radio. When he saw Bond standing over the body of the dead bodyguard, he drew his pistol.

Bond shouted in German, "He's dead, get him an ambulance!"

The policeman holstered his pistol and spoke into the radio, calling in a medevac. When he looked up again, Bond was gone.  
This was obviously bad. Bond was involved in a shootout in an opera house, with several dead and injured, and Greene getting away. He thought that shooting and blowing up an embassy in Madagascar was bad and stupid enough. By the time that Bond had reached the Ford Fusion, his Smartphone rang. It was M. _"Bond, where are you, I need an update."  
_  
Bond started the Ford and drove away from the oncoming police and ambulance vehicles racing to the opera house. "Did you get my pictures?" he asked M.

_"Was this a conversation? Can you link these people?_"

"Is that stress in your voice?"

_"Bond, I need you to come in and debrief."  
_  
"Ma'am, I don't have time."

_"I want you on the first plane to London as quick as you can."  
_  
"And I would." Bond paused, and then said, "But right now I need to find the man who tried to kill you. Good night." He tossed the phone aside and steered the car onto the A-10, not making the two-hour journey to Innsbruck, but a nearby town with a small commercial airport. He was hoping to get on a flight to Vienna, with a trip to La Paz, Bolivia.  
Hopefully, Greene wouldn't be too hard to catch this time.

* * *

M sighed angrily and replied, "Get me Tanner."

The videophone whirred before connecting through to MI6. Tanner, a short man with a cool, authoritative voice, was in much need of sleep. He asked M, _"Yes, Ma'am?_"  
"Show me the pictures that Bond sent."

_"Coming right up._" He then punched a button on his computer and sent the pictures and files through to the videophone of M's private apartment. Four men and a woman appeared on the videophone screen as Tanner began a running commentary:

The first picture was of the Russian, shaped like two eggs with multiple chins. _"Gregor Karakov, former Vladivostok minister, now owns most of the diamond mines in Siberia."_

The second was of the Pakistani, olive skinned with thick glasses and a square chin. _"Waleed Hassan, former Pakistani ISI, now a information and arms trader."_

The third featured the Israeli, with a long face with penny-brown eyes. _"Moshe Soref, former Mossad, now telecom giant."  
_  
The Jap's picture appeared next, with a Fu Manchu moustache, and quite sinister-looking indeed. _"Saito Otomo, former Security Minister to the Japanese government, now a multimillionaire electronics mogul."_

A woman's face appeared with a file attached. She was curvy, with blonde-brownish hair with clear evidence of plastic surgery from Beverly Hills. _"Fabiana Guzman, former actress and socialite, currently a holder of oil shares in Venezuela. Has connections with the Chavez regime in Caracas."_

Finally, the British man's picture and anecdote appeared last. He was tall, lanky, with a normal nose and greying, black hair. _"Guy Haines, special envoy to the British Prime Minister."_

M, having reviewed the information, replied, "Get Bond."

Tanner almost forgot another picture, this one of a blonde man's file photograph from Special Branch. Another picture was of the same man lying dead in a street in Austria, shot execution-style. _"It appears Bond shot Haines's bodyguard and threw him off a roof. It gets worse; he's a member of MI5 Special Branch."_

M was going to regret the words that she would say next, "Restrict Bond's movements. Cancel his cards, put an alert out on his passports—_all_ of them. I want him detained under heavy guard and on a flight to London within forty-eight hours."

_"Yes, Ma'am._" Tanner sighed, a bit of heartbreak in his voice.

"Tanner, be careful who you trust with this. Hopefully you're a better judge of character than I am."

Tanner signed off, and M was left to silently contemplate the fact that Double-O Seven was out of control, running amok, and going rogue.  
_I knew it was too early to promote him_.


End file.
